#and I've written body horror!

[insanityisfine]

Me, writing an annoying ass character I hate:

Me, when people who read my story also hate that character:

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Married Platonic Stobin

EVERYTHING UNDER THE CUT IS HURT/NO COMFORT EXPLICIT:

cws: dead dove, main character death, steve harrington dies, body horror, blood, gore, open wounds, grief

~~~

There’s a small band of gold on her left ring finger, with his initials engraved on the inside. 

Each and every morning, she presses the inside of the ring into the soft pad of her thumb, branding his letters into her skin. She smiles. 

Holding out her thumb to him, and he hers, they line up the indents, proof of their everlasting devotion. He smiles back at her. 

She wears flame retardant work gloves during the apocalypse, so she keeps the ring on. He holds his weapons with bare hands, so he slips his on a chain around his neck.

When her gloves are off, she twists the band around and around and around, repetition a small comfort in the face of faceless monsters. His shoulders relax when the glint catches his eye. 

He always drops the bat after a fight, and she always turns to watch him pat his chest, pushing the small circle into his sternum. They rest their foreheads together and sigh. He loves her, and she loves him.

Her bare hands are braced over his exposed chest, and their rings being so close to one another should fill her with sweet, sappy relief. 

But the ring with her initials on a chain wrapped around his neck disappears into a gaping wound between his protruding ribs.

The ring on her finger engraved with his initials is slippery with his blood, flowing under her hands, between her fingers, and up to her elbows. 

She presses hard. He screams and spasms, and she feels the ring slip off her hand and nestle inside him.

Really, it's always belonged next to his.

Red seeps between his teeth when he gasps her name. She watches it trickle out the sides of his mouth into his matted hair. Her ears ring with the memories of their vows as she breathes the familiar words into his temple. 

They are alone under a red streaked sky. He’s pale and shaking beneath her.

More red gushes from a wound on his side, coating her jeans where she’s knelt next to him. She is wet with him, drenched in him. 

Snot drips from her nose onto his opened bones, her tears soak into his chest next to his heart and he is drenched in her. 

Each and every night, hidden under the safety of their blankets and wrapped around each other like two halves to a whole, he presses the inside of his ring into the soft pad of his thumb, branding her initials into his skin. He smiles. 

Then he holds out his thumb to her, and her to his. They line up the indents, proof of their everlasting devotion, and she smiles back at him.

Now he uses the last of his strength to lift his thumb. There is no R.B. for her to see, but she sobs, and he knows she sees it anyways. His S.H. isn’t branded into the pad of hers, but she presses it to his, and he feels it anyways.

He loves her, yet he stops breathing.

She loves him, and she screams.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 4: "I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes" + "You in there?"

Read on Ao3

- Wind & Warriors

- Summary: Wind is forced to fight a malice-possessed Warriors

CW for possession, blood and injury, and mild body horror

---------------

Wind has seen Warriors in many different states. He has seen him pale and haggard from stress and exhaustion, ashen and white-faced from deep wounds. He has seen his eyes crinkle with laughter and his expression fall as he cries. He has seen him angry and joyful, heartbroken and terrified.

But never has he seen him like this.

The knight stands before him, wavering unsteadily on his feet. One half of his face is pale – too pale – and his eye shines abnormally bright from within it. But the other half is coated in a mass of sticky-looking purple-black goo. It clings to him like a mask, burrowing beneath his eye socket. The usual Hylian blue of his eye has turned to black and his pupil is a golden, cat-like slit rimmed in crimson.

The purple stuff travels down his body from there. It trails along the curve of his neck, spreading around his chest, creeping across his abdomen, traveling down to wind about his left leg. It gurgles as he takes a stumbling step forward.

“What’s the matter, sailor?” He grins, cracked lips pulling back to reveal crimson-tinged teeth. “Do you not like this new version of me?”

Wind takes a step back. His sword feels heavy in his hand.

“You-you’re not you, Warriors.”

Even saying it makes his throat feel tight. But he has to. He has to speak the truth.

When the Captain had gone missing last week, he had feared the worst. They all had. And when Wolfie had tracked his scent to Hyrule Castle, the mood had only dipped further.

(“No one goes in this place, anymore,” Wild had said, gazing at the castle with something akin to bitterness. “Not unless they don’t want to come out. There’s malice hidden in the walls. Zelda and I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it up yet.”)

But even that hadn’t completely dashed Wind’s hopes. Warriors was tough – is tough – and he had thought…well, he had thought he would find him when he had walked into the castle. Injured maybe, and in need of help, but not like this. Not unrecognizable, a monster in the form of his brother.

That is who he must face, however. And now with the rest of the heroes locked outside, he is left to face him alone.

“You’ve gotta fight it,” he pleads as Warriors comes steadily closer. “I know you can do it! You’ve just gotta try!”

“Try?” Warriors laughs and the sound seems to echo off of the stone walls. “There is nothing to try. This is what I am now, and I am better for it.”

He raises his sword. His breathing is haggard, every inhale sharp. Wind can’t say he’s afraid of him…not truly, not when he knows there is still a part of him, hidden deep within that is the Warriors he knows and loves. But when the goo begins traveling along the floor toward him, he can’t help the way his heart leaps into his throat.

“I was a servant of the goddess for so long,” Warriors continues, his voice hoarse and crackling. “I thought she gave me purpose, made me strong. But now I see that that was all a lie.”

Wind swallows. He can feel the tension in the air, building up for the knight’s next words.

“Why would I serve her, when I could have the ability to resurrect one infinitely more powerful?

“Ganondorf.”

He had known it was coming, but the name hits him like a massive wave anyway. Wind takes a step forward now, anger and fear coursing through him.

“He’s the bad guy and you know it!” He cries. “I know you do!”

Warriors only chuckles, the sound grating and sinister. “You’re foolish, just as I was. But you’ll see soon enough.” He grins, eyes glinting. “Or you’ll die.”

“Sailor!” Twilight calls from behind him. His words mingle with the curses and sounds of frustration of the other heroes. Their voices are muffled by the thick walls that stand between them and Wind, but he can hear them well enough. “What’s going on in there? Are you okay?”

Wind drags in a breath. His palms are sweaty, his hands trembling.

“Wars is…he-he’s covered in purple gooey stuff.”

“He’s what?!” It’s Wild now, panic sharp in his tone. “Sailor, is he acting weird?”

“Yeah.” His voice trembles and he clears his throat. “He…I-I think he’s possessed.”

“Possessed?” He can hear Legend groan. “That’s just our luck.”

“I’m going to find another way in,” Time says, voice brittle as ice. “You all remain here and aid the sailor any way you can.”

“There is no other—” Wild cuts off with an audible sigh. Wind guesses the old man went off before he could finish.

“He’s still fighting,” Wind says, even as he steps back again, trying vainly to keep some distance between him and the slowly advancing captain. “There’s gotta be a way we can help him.”

“There is,” Wild replies. “Listen, Wind, he’s trapped in malice. So, you’ve got to shoot the…”

A piercing scream drowns out his next words. Wind startles, grip on his sword tightening in preparation. But Warriors has stopped short and the malice with him. 

He is curled in on himself now, hunched figure looking so much weaker and more broken than seconds before. He presses a hand to his face and instantly the goop oozes over his fingertips. The scream trails off into a moan that quickly turns into a croaked word. 

“Wind?”

The sailor inhales sharply at the sound. Hope leaps inside his chest.

“It’s me, captain! I’m here! We-we’re all here! We’re gonna save you!”

Warriors falls to his knees. Wind can’t help but take a step towards him. But then the captain lifts his head and there is such anguish in his expression that it breaks his heart. He comes to a halt, throat dangerously tight.

“Wind….” The word is softer this time, more breathed than spoken. “I-I can’t…”

“You can!” Wind takes another step, ignoring the warning signals blaring in his brain. This is his brother and he’s not about to abandon him now. “I believe in you, Wars! You can fight this!”

The edges of Warriors’ mouth lift just slightly. A tear rolls down his cheek.

“Sailor,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry…please…run.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then, he begins to cackle.

He rises on shaky legs, stumbling upward like a redead rising to consume its prey. He moves forward, every step slow and jerky. The malice spreads out like a carpet before him.

Warriors grins, all sharp teeth and deathly pale skin. Blood dribbles from his mouth.

“You thought you’d won, didn’t you? You thought you wouldn’t have to fight me. So sorry to disappoint.”

He flicks a finger and suddenly the malice speeds up. It zips toward Wind in a blur of violet and black and bits of crimson. His heart jumps into his throat and he leaps sideways. Not a moment too soon either. The malice collides with the wall behind him with a sickening splat.

Wind cringes.

Is that how it had attacked Warriors? He wonders. But there isn’t time to imagine how such a horrifying fate had befallen his brother. Because Warriors whirls with startling speed and strikes again.

This time Wind is better prepared. He drops into a somersault. The malice rushes past his ear, so close he’s almost sure it’s going to hit the tip. But then he’s up again, just behind Warriors. Taking a deep breath he raises his sword and brings it down on the mass of malice that trails in the captain’s wake.

The hit does nothing.

The malice retracts, then with an unholy screech reaches for him. Wind’s eyes go wide.

He dodges, shoulder colliding painfully with the wall. Warriors turns to him with a leering smirk. Wind is unpleasantly reminded of the little imps in the Forbidden Fortress — the ones that poked at his heels and chased him up the walls. The thought makes him sick.

Warriors isn’t supposed to look like that.

“You’re fast,” the captain says. “And skilled. No wonder I loved you. At first I wasn’t sure how I could’ve cared about  some kid. But now I know. You were useful.”

Wind swallows, hard. The words hurt him more than he’d like to admit.

It’s not true. He doesn’t mean it, he tells himself, firmly. It’s the malice talking, not him.

Warriors leaps toward him again, this time bringing his sword slicing through the air. Wind is forced to hurl himself sideways to escape being pinned against the wall.

But he doesn’t have time to even catch his breath. Malice surges toward him across the ground, grasping his feet even as he turns. He struggles, fear running hot in his veins. Its grip is strong, however, and it holds him firmly in place.

Warriors stalks up to him. Wind forces himself to meet his crazed stare.

“You can’t run anymore,” he sneers. “Fight me or die. There are no other options.” He steps closer, hand outstretched inches from Wind’s face. Malice encases his fingertips. “Unless, of course, you would rather join me.”

He tilts his head and the way the light falls upon the still-human side of his face almost makes him look like himself again. Almost. 

“You could help me resurrect him. You could help me bring an end to this world.”

Tears run in rivulets down his cheeks. He tastes salt. But Wind curls his hand into fist. 

“I won’t help you. Not like that. I’m gonna set you free!”

Warriors straightens, sword clasped tightly in his fist. The eye of malice narrows, as though seeking prey. Its contrasting array of colors seem to gleam.

With it so close, Wind finds it hard to take his gaze off of it. His hands almost itch to lose an arrow into it like he has done in so many dungeons.

Legend’s voice echoes in his mind, colored with peals of laughter.

“Always shoot the eye.”

Then, comes Wild, tone panicked but determined, muffled by the thick walls, cut off by Warriors’ cries of agony.

“You’ve gotta shoot the…”

Wind inhales sharply.

That’s it! 

There is still hope, after all.

The malice continues to climb sluggishly up his body, weighing him down. The darkness that emanated off of it is suffocating. Lifting a shaking hand, Warriors aims the tip of his sword at his heart.

“Then you’ll die.”

Wind takes a deep breath. Swiping at his tears, he steels himself. Hand heavy, heart in his throat, he lifts his sword.

Please let this work, he prays.

And then, he plunges the weapon into Warriors’ face.

There is a nauseating squish, a skull-splitting scream, and Warriors crumples. The malice around Wind’s legs dissipates in a cloud of dark violet specks. The goop on and around Warriors follows suit seconds later.

Instantly, Wind is on his knees, sword sheathed, hands on Warriors’ shoulder. He turns the knight over, choking out his name as the windows and doorways of the Sanctum slide open and the sunlight streams in. It illuminates the captain’s — now completely human — face in blessed light.

Distantly, Wind registers that the others are racing into the room, calling his and Warriors’ names, punctuated with panicked questions. But he can’t bring himself to reply.

Warriors’ eyes are closed now, his freed body still.

…Too still. Wind watches his chest, waiting for it to rise.

“Come on.” Tears spring to his eyes anew and roll down his cheeks, tracing the paths of their predecessors. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “Come on, Warriors, wake up.”

Please don’t be dead.

Time is dropping down beside him now, already uncorking a bottle. A fairy flies free and heads straight for the fallen captain. Wind watches as she begins to whirl around him.

Her dance seems to last forever. But then, at last, she zips away and disappears.

Wind leans forward, holding his breath.

Abruptly, Warriors jolts upward coughing and gasping. He looks around the room, wildly, eyes wide and panicked. But they are blue as the Great Sea and full of the life he knows so well and Wind can feel nothing in that moment except joy and relief.

“Warriors!” He wraps his arms tightly around the captain, half to support him and half to cling to him. To remind himself he is still here, alive. That he is safe.

Warriors stiffens and pulls back, eyes roaming his body.

“Sailor,” he croaks in the voice that is so unmistakably his. “Are-are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

With a shaky smile, Wind drags him back into the hug. “I’m fine! Promise! Don’t worry about me.”

Warriors makes a sound like a half-sob. He shudders.

“I-I’m so, so sorry.”

The sailor shakes his head, viciously. “Don’t be! It wasn’t you.”

“But I should have…I could have fought…”

Time leans forward, setting a hand on both of their shoulders. Emboldened by his presence Wind sucks in a breath, nearly choking on tears.

“You did fight, captain! I saw you. You-you fought all you could!”

“There is nothing else you could’ve done,” Time adds, quietly. “The champion hasn’t known anyone to resist the pull of such evil, save for Flora. And it seems you continued to battle it for quite some time.”

Warriors doesn’t reply. He slumps, defeated, and Wind holds him tighter.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. I-I was really worried.” He raises his head to look Warriors in the face. “You…are okay now, right?”

There are tears running down Warriors’ pale cheeks, blood trickling from his mouth and various wounds Wind can see now that the malice is gone. But he cracks a broken smile.

“Yeah, I’m alright now, sailor. All thanks to you.”

[localvoidcat]

for the writing suggestions: canon thatcher and adam.... (only if you want to tho!!)

this has been sitting in my inbox for a full month cause i haven't had any ideas yet BUT presto just dropped so. despairduo time

the drive from the house to the station was long.

both the literal sense, being a long way from bythorne to mandela, and in the sense that the silence between the two made it feel much longer than it deserved to be.

to say there was complete silence would be false. there was the tapping of thatcher's hands against the wheel, drumming out an anxious rhythm as he stared out at the road ahead.

occasionally, he would glance back at the man in the backseat, and in those moments where adam was able to see his expression, he would notice the fatigue in the older man's face, leaving behind nothing but dull eyes and a weary attempt at a smile.

it didn't help much in light of the pain, of course. but it was a nice attempt, even if it felt devoid of any real emotion.

even if it seemed to hide a twinge of fear behind it.

there was also the sound of adam's coughing, loud and pained, like his lungs were trying to give out on him like the rest of his body (he didn't think he could really call it his anymore, but he was too scared to find out who it belonged to now) had.

part of him wanted to shut out the pain, to try and ignore it as it rolled in waves with every movement of his body and every shifting bone under his skin, but another part of him feared that the pain was the only thing keeping him him.

maybe the more he focused on it, the more he fought against whatever wanted to replace him (it wasn't him that had been replaced, was it, though?), the more he would keep of himself.

after all, it was pain that made people human, wasn't it? he wasn't sure he knew anymore. he wasn't sure if he was human enough to know.

he wasn't even entirely sure who he was. he certainly wasn't adam murray. adam murray was human. he was not. adam murray had a face. he had to fight to keep what was left of his. adam murray had friends. he did not (or so he kept telling himself). adam murray had a family. he did not.

another coughing fit wrecked his body, and he curled a little closer around himself. thatcher turned around, the concern in his face evident for the brief second he looked at the alternate, before turning back to face the street again.

and maybe, the thing that wanted so badly to be adam murray thought in that moment, he didn't have any of those things. he didn't know what he had anymore. he didn't know if he had anything left to his name (or if he even had that).

but he had something. he had someone.

whether or not he was deserving of it, he didn't know. he didn't know if he deserved to be helped.

but he'd still taken thatcher's hand. he'd still followed him out to the car, and he'd still trusted him enough to stay as long as he had.

maybe he didn't deserve it, but he didn't want to lose it either.

he'd lost enough that night.

[seventh-district]

I Don't Care If You're Contagious

He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

When he comes home bloody and drained from a job you regret missing out on, you and Matt both find comfort in one another, unorthodox though it may be.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - Minors DNI

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 11,154

Contains: [spoilers for The Malenkee Saga (Jimち ASMR)] [not canon compliant] [SH / NSSI] [Reader's gender isn't specified but they're kinda implied to be fem] [blood] [blood consumption] [blood play] [comfort] [consensual, but not safe or sane] [descriptions of food and eating] [domestic? maybe?] [gun] [first kisses] [implied murder/death] [implied SA & violence] [needle play] [pet names] [praise] [PTSD] [scars] [traumatic memories/flashback] [unnatural abilities] [you and Matt are both criminals, mentally unwell, and so, so in love with each other 🖤]

Note: This fic is a sequel to this one, and while it isn't required reading, I'd recommend that you do if you want to have the full context going into this one.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy and fiction, and should be regarded as such. I don't condone replicating the acts depicted. If you're interested in this sort of play, please educate yourself, take the appropriate precautions, and use the correct tools.

The delicate scent of freshly chopped vegetables simmered in broth fills your small kitchen. Taking it in with a deep breath as you slowly stir the pot, you smile, content in the peaceful moment. Bringing the ladle to your lips, you blow away the rising steam with a few unhurried breaths.

Once it’s a tolerable temperature, you sample your work, and hum a quiet note. It’s… on the bland side, to put it mildly. If this pot were for you alone, you’d be reaching for the spice cabinet post haste. It isn’t, though, and you don’t even find yourself lamenting that fact, given the company you’re soon to be sharing it with.

When you’d first begun attempting to feed Matt, you started with something you considered quite basic and mild. A simple bowl of oatmeal. Forgone were any of your more extravagant toppings and mix-ins, you were sticking to the bare minimum. Oats, water and milk. A pinch of salt, a small spoonful of sugar, and just a dusting of cinnamon. It doesn’t get much more basic, (or flavorless…), than that.

Or so you thought.

The memories of his favorite cuisine must've fallen too far into the back of your mind. Mixed in and tucked away with all the other parts of your past you’d rather not dwell on, the taste, or lack thereof, of his signature “soup” was hardly the worst of them.

It was hardly the best either.

Rather unremarkable aside from the bizarre circumstances of its initial presentation, it wasn’t the taste that you found so off-putting. It was the texture. Clumps of bread that’d grown far past soggy, nearly turning to sludge amidst the watery broth, it was just… unpleasant.

You could never wrap your head around Matt’s apparent genuine enjoyment of the dish. In the beginning, before you knew him better, you’d thought he might just be fucking with you. Surely no sane person could like it at all, let alone name it their favorite. But therein laid the error in your reasoning. You weren’t dealing with a sane man at all.

When you once questioned him on it, he gave you a vague yet sincere answer. “Oh, it’s an old family recipe.” The words had rolled off his tongue with ease, and your brow furrowed. He rarely spoke of any family, hell, you weren’t sure he ever really had one. When you pressed further though, his answer quickly fell apart. When required to actually try and recall any detail as to this supposed family, he drew a blank.

It wasn’t that surprising, in all honesty. It didn’t make you doubt him much, either. Even less so nowadays, with your approximate knowledge of just how old his idea of “old” is. The mind can only recall so much, can only reach so far back before everything starts to fade.

Sometimes you mourn the amount of his memory, his history, that’s been lost to the unrelenting passage of time.

Sometimes you wonder who he’d be mourning, if their memory still lived within him.

You blink, and pull your eyes back into focus.

You stir the pot on the stove before you.

Best to keep yourself grounded in the here and now, you suppose.

Regardless of Matt’s supposed love of that awful soup of his, you weren’t too keen on it yourself. You’d been far too afraid to tell him so the first few times he fed it to you, and you were hardly in a position to decline. But time passed as it always does and you gradually turned from his captive into his companion. You learned that you needn’t fear a disagreement so trivial. Eventually you brought it up, letting him down slowly so as to not insult his… family’s cooking.

He took it far better than you’d feared, only seeming a bit… saddened, that you’d exaggerated your initial assessment of the dish. You weren’t sure if his sadness stemmed from your newfound dislike of his soup, or from the reminder of your initial fear of him. You never asked.

You couldn’t imagine that eating nothing but bread and water could be good for him, but then again he’s shown great enough feats of survival that you suspect he may not even need food at all. The black scars on your wrist suggest that you may now share that trait too, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your taste. You still crave food, and if the two of you are going to be eating together, you’d like it to be something you both can enjoy.

That’s how you found yourself presenting him with an innocent bowl of oatmeal, figuring it wasn’t that far of a step away from his preferences.

You quickly gathered that you’d underestimated his palate’s sensitivities.

You’d tried not to stare as he pulled the bottom of his mask up, the sight still relatively rare to you then. With bated breath, you watched him take a tentative bite of the benign breakfast food. To his credit, he didn’t cringe, or gag, or any other outrageous reaction you’d feared. He just… frowned. And your heart sank a little. Had you used too much water? Not enough milk? Too much salt? Not enough sugar?

Your inner worries were soon quieted as he politely questioned you, holding another spoonful up in front of him. “Why is it… spicy?”

It took everything in you not to laugh, both from pure surprise, and at the meme he was unknowingly quoting. “I… is it? It’s spicy to you…?”

He took in a second thoughtful bite, and nodded. “Yeah… kind of? It’s a little thick… and has this… I don’t know.” He brought his hand up to cup his exposed jawline in thought. “It’s… hmm… no, not dirt, oh what’s the word… earthy! Like… spicy… wood, or something.” You bite back a smile at his explanation, and catch how he mirrors yours when his eyes land on you. “I… I think I quite like the sweetness of it though.”

You quickly gathered that he was awfully sensitive to- well, just about every flavor, the more intense ones especially so. And his baseline for “intense” was adorably low. It made enough sense you supposed, given you’d no idea how long he’d been eating that same flavorless glop of his. It did raise a brief question in your mind though, the answer which you’d silently searched for when you were next alone.

A brief search in your phone’s browser shut down your fleeting line of thought that perhaps he’d never been accustomed to such flavors. It seemed quite the opposite, in fact, given that apparently Britain had taken over the cinnamon trade during the 1800’s. So, it was unlikely that the spice, and similar others, weren’t available to him in some capacity then. Well, if your attempts at surmising his origins were correct, that is. It didn’t seem to be considered a rare commodity by those times either.

Shaking the tangling web of thoughts from your mind, you dismissed it in the same way you’d learned to treat his many other anomalies. Perhaps he’d lived in… unique circumstances even then. Perhaps the true extent of his “old family recipe” has simply been lost to time, leaving him with memory of nothing but the utter basic ingredients. Perhaps your rough calculation of his true age was incorrect. The variety of reasons were plentiful, multiplying, and eventually, overwhelming to your tired mind.

Best to not dwell.

You were appreciative of his continued willingness to try your offerings, having not been too badly put off by his first impression of your “spicy” oatmeal. You began modifying your simple recipes, removing more and more flavor until you were left with the tamest possible versions of them. He came to enjoy your oatmeal, once you’d upped the water and forgone the cinnamon. He’d quite enjoyed your vegetable soup, too, once you parted ways with your beloved garlic and onions.

It wasn’t a hard sacrifice to make, in all honesty, because the satisfaction of finding something, anything else he liked to eat, far outweighed the loss. Besides, the omissions only applied to the initial recipe. Nothing stopped you from seasoning your own serving after the fact, which you often did. One would think you were eating Carolina Reapers with the way his eyes widened at the sight of you seasoning your food.

You never considered yourself to be much of a genuine spice lover, you just liked some flavor in your food. It became a lighthearted joke between you both. He continually balked at the sight of your heavy-handed garlic powder pour, and you gently poked fun at him over his bland taste. Watching him contentedly eat his watery oats, you once playfully remarked as much, affection lacing your quiet words as they crossed the kitchen table. “Matthew, you’ve got to be the whitest man I know.”

You doubted he’d get the reference, which only made his honest response infinitely funnier in retrospect. In the moment, though, it just made you a bit sad. “…You know other men…”

It wasn’t a question, nothing more than a quiet, trailing statement with a jealous undertone. He seemed saddened by such a reminder, and you quickly felt the urge to remove the frown settling on his lips. Rising from your seat and closing the space between you, your hand found his shoulder as you bent down to his level. After planting a long kiss on his temple, you reassured him softly. “None of them have ever held a candle to the ways in which I know you.”

You recall the feeling of his muscles relaxing beneath your touch, and you smile.

Using the edge of your ladle, you gently press it down and part a soft carrot slice in two. Nodding to yourself and giving the pot one last stir, you reach out and return the range’s dial back to its vertical off position. It’s then, in the otherwise quiet room, that Matt’s heartbeat grows noticeably louder in your ears.

It took a little while to adapt to at first, this new constant pulse in the background of your mind. When he first explained it to you, you’d had a fleeting fear that it would grow to annoy you, but you’re relieved to have found that to be far from the case. It’s comforting, above all else. A soft, constant reminder that he’s still alive, and still with you, even when he isn’t physically with you. And like any constant sound, you grew accustomed to it. Before you knew it you found it fairly easy to let slip from your focus when you so desired, and just as easy to tune back into when you wished.

Even when you weren’t paying specific attention to it though, it was always unmistakable when he first came home. Its volume being based upon your proximity, the steady beat always made itself re-known when he drew close. He was an otherwise quiet man, the many years spent in his particular occupation lending him an innate degree of stealth that he carried with him everywhere. He could never sneak up on you again, though. Such was the price he paid for giving you his heart, and he’s never seemed to mind.

So it wasn’t the silent unlocking of your door, nor was it his silent footsteps through the short hall that told you he was home. It was the steady thump of his heartbeat, catching your attention as it grew louder.

Smiling, you turn away from the stove to face the doorway just in time to greet him as he’s rounding the corner. “Welcome ho-…-ome…” The disheveled sight of him then causes your face to fall. You falter for a moment as his exhausted voice greets you in turn, making his way to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. Reaching a hand inside his jacket, he pulls out a thick wad of cash, dropping it on the table with little fanfare as you make your way over to him.

The heavy scent of iron lingers on him, and your hands hover for a moment before gently landing on his upper arms. Catching his gaze, you question him in urgent concern. “What- what happened? Are you okay?”

He pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the table next. “Of course I am, doll…” His unconvincing statement is punctuated by a quiet groan as he lowers himself into the chair. Your hands slip away from his arms, and when you register a cold wetness on the left, your breath hitches. Your eyes flick down to assess your palm at the same time as his preemptive reassurance hits your ears. “It’s not mine.”

The blood that soaked his jacket tints your hand a shade of red, not black, and you release your breath.

Reaching for a hand towel and wiping it away without a care, you resist the urge to put your hands on him again. You want to feel, want to search his pitch black clothes for any patch of blood that might not be red, but you refrain. You don’t ever want to overwhelm him.

Turning behind you and pulling your own chair near, you release his name in a shaky breath. “Matt…” You have to ask. “Did it… go south?”

His elbows thunk lightly against the table as he props them there, leaning forward. “Only…” He sighs. “Only a little bit.” He eyes the cash on the table. “I still got the job done.”

You follow his gaze, and frown. Reaching out, you lift one end of the stack with your thumb, watching the hundreds flicker past as you riffle through them. Pulling your hand back and crossing your arms, you voice your doubt. “Was it worth it? I don’t ever want you taking a job for the sake of the-”

“This wasn’t about the payment.” He gently cuts you off, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not why I took this job.”

“Was it… personal, then?”

“…Not quite.” His gaze drifts up from the table to stare out the small window above the sink. “It was… a moral thing, I guess. If I’d passed on it, there was a risk of it becoming personal. But- even if there wasn’t… I’m not the type to let a man like that walk.”

You question him gently. “…Like what?”

He glances at you for a moment, hesitating on his words. “He… had a reputation. Real big, strong, the cocky type. Liked throwing his weight around, starting fights…” Matt laughs. “He was so overconfident in himself, that- word was- he never even carried a gun. Thought that his sheer strength, “street smarts”, whatever, would be enough to carry him through anything.”

You roll your eyes at the notion. “Sounds like a real prick, yeah. But still, that’s not enough to get a bounty put on himself… right?”

You can’t see the way the edge of Matt’s lips tug up in the slightest smile at your words. It fades fast regardless though as he continues talking around the dark truth of the matter.

“Fist fights weren’t the only way he liked to… throw his weight around. He also had a penchant for targeting people that he knew couldn’t stand a chance at fighting back. He… enjoyed taking things that didn’t belong to him.”

The dark, disgusted edge that Matt’s voice has taken tells you that he’s not talking about material possessions. Your stomach drops. “…Oh.”

“Yeah.” His gaze locks onto the table. “There are… certain lines that you just don’t cross. He quite enjoyed crossing them. I quite enjoy killing those who do. So, no. It wasn’t about the money, doll.”

You uncross your arms, taking a deep breath. The metallic sting of the low-life’s remains wafts off of Matt and hits the back of your throat. The two of you sit in thoughtful silence for a few moments, and you come to a conclusion. “I wish you’d have let me come with you.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “Like I said this morning, love, it was too dangerous-”

“Don’t you know how much I’d have loved to get in on a job like that?”

He breathes. In, and out. “I… do. I do. But I couldn’t risk it. Not this time.”

To his credit, he was often quite lenient with your requests. As much as he’d sometimes like to keep you here, safe, tied to the bedpost to never leave again and subject yourself to the cruel, dangerous world outside… he doesn’t. He’s come to recognize the strength that resides within you. He knows you can hold your own. He usually does let you accompany him on these jobs. He can even admit that you two make an excellent team.

That’s why you didn’t argue this morning when he insisted that he handle this one alone. The both of you have come very far. If he has reasons for wanting to work alone sometimes, you’ll step aside. But seeing him now, looking so worn down… knowing the type of revenge you missed out on, even if it wasn’t yours to take… it’s hard to stomach that you could only sit back and wait.

Your silence doesn’t sit well with him, so he continues to explain. “I know you can hold your own. As much as I hate to see you have to do it, I know. I know. But against a man like that, if there existed even the smallest chance that we could be overpowered and you could be subjected to… him.” He shakes his head, resolute. “No. I won’t ever risk that. I couldn’t live with myself if he’d so much as laid a finger on you.”

His eyes meet yours, and to your surprise, they’re almost pleading.

You hold his gaze for a moment before responding, letting the air’s tension ease. “…I get it.” You sigh, but it’s mostly one of acceptance. “But Gods, Matt, you look like you could collapse. How big of a fight did he put up, anyways?”

The old wooden chair creaks beneath him as he leans back, giving it his full exhausted weight. “He was a good fighter, I’ll admit. Strong too.” He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

“Are you though? For- for all I know he could’ve hurt you fifty different ways, you healed on the way home, and I’ll be none the wiser! It’s not like I can just strip you and look for myself, I have to take your word for it!”

He’s grateful for the mask hiding the way his cheeks flush at your sudden mention of stripping him. He tilts his head to the side, searching for a more convincing answer.

The way his head moves causes the fabric of his mask to stretch out across his cheek. Not much, but enough. Just enough for your worried gaze to catch the tear in the fabric and the way it pulls apart, exposing a sliver of skin beneath.

You bolt up, leaning in close to him before he can even understand what you’re staring at. His wide-eyed gaze flicks toward you, but he doesn’t pull back. “…What is it?”

You reach a cautious hand out, giving him time to stop you, and he doesn’t. Pinching the material of his mask between your finger and thumb, you wince when you feel that it isn’t dry. Gently pulling down, you part the fabric far enough to get a better look beneath. “You have a tear in your-”

You can’t see much through the hole without tearing it wider, but the smeared black stain on the otherwise pale skin of his cheek causes you to falter. “…It’s not a tear.”

You pull your gaze away to look into his eyes. “It’s a cut.”

Recollection seems to hit him at your words, and he raises a hand to meet yours, his fingertips blindly assessing the area. When he pulls them away they’re tinted black.

Sheepish laughter escapes him as you release your hold on his mask, your frown deeper than ever.

“What can I say? He, eh… he brought a knife to a gun fight.”

You don’t laugh. “He cut through your mask. He hurt you.”

At your tone, Matt scrambles to do damage control. “It was barely a scratch! You- you know- one thing about big guys like him? They’re not all that nimble- or- or- agile like me. He hardly even landed any hits on me!”

Your eyes widen. “‘Hardly’? Are there more!?”

He shakes his head, hands held out in a placating gesture. “No! I- I mean- I don’t think so! It’s… kinda hard to tell… y’know? I was so caught up in the moment, it’s… easy to miss something as small as the sting of a blade.”

You stare at him, mouth agape for a moment in incredulous silence. You eventually close it, bringing your palms up to drag them down your cheeks in exasperation.

You suppose for a man who’s been shot as many times as he has, the pain of a cut would hardly even register by comparison.

His name comes out as a whine this time. “Matthew…”

“I’m sorry, love…” You can’t read much of his expression, but he sounds guilty.

You force yourself to take a calming breath.

“…No, no… it’s not your fault that he hurt you.” You could argue that it’s his fault for taking the job alone in the first place, but that’s hardly fair of you to say. Not when you know how much of his motivation was to keep you safe.

“You… don’t have to show me, if he hurt you elsewhere. Not if it isn’t vital. But please, at least let me help somehow. I can- I can wash those clothes for you.” Your gaze roams across the cut in his mask. “And I can mend that hole.”

“You don’t have to do any of that, doll, I-”

“I want to.” You cut him off with conviction. “I’ve- I’ve got food for you too… if you want it…” You add, gesturing to the pot on the stove with less conviction.

His gaze lingers on you as your tense shoulders fall, and his own tired muscles relax in response. Thoughtfully, he slowly begins to shrug off his jacket. “Yeah… yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”

You stand, coming around to lift the fabric from his shoulders. His voice grows soft. “…Thank you.”

-

With soup in your stomachs, Matt’s freshly washed clothes tumbling in the dryer, and himself currently in the shower, you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you set a freshly rinsed bowl in the drying rack. Retrieving the nearby hand towel from the counter, you admire what you can see of the sunset from your kitchen window, sifting through the thoughts and emotions cluttering your mind.

Matt’s order of operations this evening were strange, but hardly anything about him isn’t, so you don’t think about it too hard. Whatever compelled him to eat before his shower makes no sense to you. But hey, everybody’s got their preferences, you suppose.

Thankfully, his mask and jacket seemed to be the only two things that had any significant amount of blood on them. He let you take them off, what with you so eager to get them in the wash and rid your kitchen of the metallic scent. You imagined his shirt and pants didn’t come out completely unscathed, but with his penchant for an all-black wardrobe, it was hard to tell. You weren’t about to have him strip right then when it seemed all he wanted to do was take a nap right there at the table. It was fine, the rest could go in the wash later.

Returning from the washroom to the kitchen, the sight of him smiling at you, politely requesting soup with blood still smeared across his cheek gave you pause. When you questioned him on it, he blinked at you with tired eyes, stating that your cooking would give him the strength to go shower afterwards. You figured he was mostly saying that in an attempt to lift your spirits, surely he wasn’t that hungry. Nevertheless, it made you smile.

Pulling your mind from the past and your gaze from the purple-orange sky, you drape your towel over the oven door’s handle. With the kitchen back in order, you close the curtains, kill the lights, and make your way to the dryer.

You interrupt the machine and pull the dry mask from the drum before shutting the door and allowing the remaining larger, thicker, still-damp fabrics to finish out the cycle.

You flatten the balaclava in your hands as you make your way to the bedroom. Matt’s humming escapes from the crack beneath the bathroom door, along with the sound of running water as he continues his shower. Thoughtfully running your thumb over the slit across the mask’s left cheek, you stop at your dresser. Pilfering through the top drawer for your little sewing kit, you decide to make good on your offer to mend the hole.

Clicking on your bedside lamp, you kick your slippers off and settle atop the sheets, laying your supplies out in front of you. Analyzing the fabric, you pick out what you’ll need. It’s a pretty clean cut.

You push aside the quiet question of how sharp the man’s knife had been.

Should be easy enough to mend it close to new with some tight, careful stitching.

You push aside the quiet question of if any part of Matt might’ve needed stitching.

Cutting a length of black thread, you ready the needle, and set to your quiet work.

You shake your head at the prior thought, finding that it won’t leave you be. There’s never any need for stitches when it comes to Matt. The same likely holds true for you now as well. You both heal too quickly for that to be necessary.

You find yourself wishing that’d been the case for you back when you had a knife stuck in your gut, countless safety pins pushed through your skin, and a maniac cornering you, intent on bleeding you out the hard way.

“Death by a thousand cuts.” He’d told you.

Long as you may live, you don’t think you’ll ever forget it.

You try not to dwell on those memories, but it’s hard not to lament what could’ve happened. How differently things could’ve gone if you’d had the power that you possess today. How you’d have pulled that blade from your stomach without fear and shoved it through his throat so fast he wouldn’t have seen it coming. How you’d have torn that hideous white mask off of his face just to watch the shock and pain contort his features as you twisted the blade.

You watch the needle push through the fabric in your hands in a rhythmic, repetitive motion, your body on autopilot as your mind lingers in the past.

Maybe if Matt hadn’t had to show up and save you that day, things could’ve gone differently. Maybe the two of you wouldn’t have had to part ways afterward. Maybe your next meeting wouldn’t have been handcuffed together in an unfamiliar room.

Who knows. It’s a waste of time to wish you could change the past. And if things hadn’t gone the way they did, maybe you’d have never seen him again at all. Maybe there’s a reason for everything happening exactly how it did. Who knows.

An unknown force suddenly jostles you and you yelp, startled out of your thoughts. You immediately hear Matt apologize, and you turn, quickly gathering that the “unknown force” was nothing more than him, plopping down on the bed next to you. You open your mouth to respond, but you’re interrupted when you go to move your hand and an instinctive hiss of pain comes out of you instead.

Looking down, your eyes widen at the sight of your sewing needle, pierced straight through the pad of your left index finger.

“Oh, no!” Comes Matt’s shocked voice from beside you after his gaze follows yours. “Ohhh, no, no, no. Did I make you do that?”

You assume your fingers must’ve slipped when he startled you, but you aren’t about to blame him. You struggle to find your words as you stare at the tiny impalement. “It’s… it’s fine, honey, I was just… zoned out. Didn’t even notice that you’d left the bathroom…”

You gather Matt’s mask in your free hand, unable to put it down given that it’s still attached to the thread, attached to the needle, attached to you. Pinning the fabric between your wrist and your chest, you twist your body and hold your hand out under the lamp to your left. The thread attaching you to the mask grows taut, tugging lightly at your new piercing, and you feel your mind slipping.

You don’t feel yourself in your bed anymore, and you don’t see your nightstand in front of you. You feel yourself pinned to a wall, and you see that awful man pushing another pin through your skin. He’s rough and careless, pressing them deep to catch on more than just skin, tugging them back up to fasten them and make sure this hurts as much as possible.

Tears well up in your eyes as you feel someone take hold of your wrist. You instinctively pull away, and their soft grip tightens.

You hear that awful, wet, sputtering voice in your mind, muttering its nonsense, growing louder, angrier. You try to make sense of its repetitions. You shut your eyes tight and all you can see is blood. All you can hear is the blood spilling from his lips… his tongue. Tongue. That’s right. Someone cut out his tongue. Who? Was it you? Have you forgotten that too? Is this your punishment for such a crime? But- no- why would you do that? Did you do that? Did you do that? Do you deserve this? What did you do to deserve this?

What did you do?

What did you do?

What did you do, child?

Matthew’s voice cuts through the noise at last, shouting your name.

When you open your eyes, you meet his through a watery gaze.

He lowers his voice, but his heavy, serious tone remains as he begins to ground you.

“It’s over. He’s dead. He’s dead, and gone, and never coming back, and you didn’t do anything. You never did anything to deserve that. Not any of it.”

You’re tempted to close your eyes, wanting his voice to be the only thing you can perceive, but he stops you. “Ah-ah-ah- no, no, poppet, stay with me. Want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, raising your free hand to wipe at your eyes. He keeps one hand around your other wrist, holding your injury steady as he tugs at the collar of his bathrobe. He then reaches for your free hand with his, and you hardly have time to be confused before he’s slipping it beneath the thick fabric of his robe, bringing your hand to rest on his bare chest. The bold move shocks you halfway out of your mind’s haze, and for a brief, blissful moment all you can focus on is how warm he is.

Guiding your hand, he settles it directly over the part of his chest where you’d planted his last two hearts. “Do you feel that?”

The steady twin thumping against your palm aligns with the rhythm of his pulse in your mind. You nod. He rests his hand atop yours, a silent invitation to keep it there.

“Good. Focus on that for me, okay? Focus on that while we breathe. Just follow my lead, I know you can do this.”

He patiently guides you through a few long minutes of breathing, until you’re able to match his measured breaths. As soon as you feel able, you try to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Matt, I don’t know what came over me, I just-”

He gently hushes you. “Pumpkin, c’mon, none of that. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay? Just breathe. In…” You copy him again. “Aaand out…” You manage to let your shoulders drop on the exhale this time, and he smiles. “Good. There we go.” His hand slowly leaves his chest, and you wordlessly slip yours out of his robe, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

You risk another glance at your injury, and to your relief it doesn’t make your head swim this time. Matt still tries to distract you from it, leaning in to break your line of sight. “You don’t have to worry about that, doll, I’ll take care of it-”

You nod, but still cut him off by tugging your hand closer for a better look. “You can- I’ll- I’ll let you, I just… wanna see.”

He allows it, his careful grip on your wrist remaining. “See what?”

You turn your hand under the light. “How deep it is.” Your stomach turns a bit as you stare, but you’re relieved to find that it’s not that bad. The needle simply slipped through the soft pad of your fingertip, not hitting anything else. You feel silly for caring, what with your body’s capabilities, the risk from something like this is as trivial as a paper cut. You suppose you just haven’t gotten used to living in a more resilient body. All of your old fears still linger, unnecessary as they may be.

Regardless, you look away as you allow him to take your hand back. “…Okay, Doc, have at me.”

Matthew chuckles. “Me? A doctor? Goodness, what is this world coming to…”

Attempting to keep the mood light, he playfully considers your minor injury as he steadies your upturned hand on his knee. “Now, this is a pretty cool piercing, I’ll admit. But it’s also a pretty inconvenient one, isn’t it. So as- uh- oh, what do the kids say these days… hardcore as it looks, I’m gonna need to remove this, alright?”

You nod, laughing beneath your breath, and he finds himself satisfied with the small smile he manages to bring out of you.

“I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can, yeah? Want me to count you down?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head. “Nah, it’s fine. In your own time.”

“Alright, love. Deep breath in for me?”

You inhale, and one short, mildly uncomfortable moment later, you’re freed from the painful intrusion.

“There we go.” You open your eyes as he takes the needle with its attached thread and balaclava out of your hold. Playful as ever, he scolds the offending object as he sets it aside. “Bad needle, bad! No one hurts my poppet, not even you.” He shakes his head, and you huff a laugh at his commitment to the bit.

As sweet as your partner is being, your focus still shifts to your sore finger, held in your own lap now. You watch two little beads of black blood form on both ends of the puncture wound. They swell, and slowly begin to roll down your finger as Matt returns to kneel in front of you.

A half-baked thought occurs, and you act on it immediately. Holding your finger out to him in offering, you feel a sense of déjà vu, recalling the first time you made an offering like this. His eyes widen at the sudden presentation, and far be it from him to presume, he questions you.

“Would you… like me to go grab a bandage for that, dear? It should… stop bleeding on its own very soon, but, I don’t mind if you-”

You shake your head. “That’s not necessary. I, uh… I’m offering.”

His brows raise. “Offering?”

“Y-yeah. A taste. If you want it.”

His tongue briefly pokes out to wet his lips, a minuscule movement, but you catch it. “Are- are you sure? You were just pretty upset, I don’t want to make anything worse…”

You nudge your hand closer, an odd sense of desperation fueling you. “I’m sure.”

Conflicted but clearly craving it, he brings your finger to his lips carefully. You take in a breath, nodding. Painfully slow, ready to stop himself at any second, he finally tastes you, and you exhale involuntarily. When he pulls away, there are already two little dots, tiny twin scars adorning both sides of your finger.

Damn, you sure do heal fast.

Why does that disappoint you?

You catch him eyeing the twin trails running down the length of your digit, and you encourage him to do what he likely considers too obscene. “Go ahead, if you’d like, love.”

His unsure gaze flicks between you and the remaining blood on your finger several times, before eventually giving in when you don’t waver. His tongue peeks out again, chasing the trails down the length of your finger, and his cheeks are burning red when he pulls away.

You feel lightheaded at the sight, in the best way possible. Sighing out a breathy “There you go…”, you take your hand back, admiring the pinprick scars.

“Thank you… you, uh, certainly didn’t have to offer that…” Matt’s appreciation goes in one ear and out the other as you quickly find yourself in the grips of a brand new idea. A newly born desire.

A stupid one? Maybe.

A dangerous one? Perhaps.

A weird one? Certainly.

You turn and pitch it to him before you can think any better of it.

“Can we do that again?”

He blinks a few times. “…Pardon?”

You reach for your sewing kit. “Can we…” You fish out a pin-filled cushion and present it to him. “…Do that again?”

You imagine the gears in his brain stuttering and shifting as his face cycles through several different expressions. “You want… to do that… again? All of it?”

You nod, a slightly less than subtle smile on your face. “Uhuh!”

“You want to pierce yourself again? On purpose this time? Because I- I promise you there’s easier ways to draw blood-”

“It’s not that different from a cut.” You interject. “And I… certainly don’t have to be the one to do it, but I can be… if you… don’t… want to.” Your voice is barely audible by the time you get the full sentence out.

“You want me to do it?” He reaches up, placing his palm on your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” His question is mixed with disbelieving laughter, and the sound is contagious.

Now laughing too, you nod, pulling his hand away and taking it in yours. “Matt, I’m high on endorphins right now, I’m better than okay.” You squeeze his hand. “And I’d quite like to make this last.”

What remains of your rationality pipes up, reminding you that perhaps he doesn’t want to. You sober up a bit at the thought.  “That- that is… only if you want to.”

He shakes his head. “No, I- wait that’s- that’s not a no! I mean- it’s not a yes either- at least- not yet! I…” He sighs. “I just… don’t want to bring up bad memories again.”

You alleviate his concern with admittedly shady logic at best. “We can make new ones! Re… I don’t know… re-route the association.”

He frowns, clearly skeptical.

“I promise you, Matthew, I wouldn’t do this if I thought it would upset me.”

You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

“How can you know that it won’t?”

“I… can’t. Not for sure.” You place the pin cushion gingerly on your knee, and you crack a smile. “Not unless we try.”

He considers you for a long moment, and you release your eager hold on his hand,  reiterating your prior point.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to.”

He takes the cushion in one hand and slowly pulls a random pin out with the other. He asks you a very serious question.

“Will you tell me to stop, the moment you don’t like it anymore?”

Surprise paints your features. “Of course.”

He sets the cushion aside. “You’re sure you’d rather I be the one to do it?”

Your breathing picks up. “I’m sure.”

He notices, because of course he does, and he smiles, voice regaining a playful edge. “Well then… what kind of doctor would I be to leave a patient in need?”

You hate to admit the effect such a silly statement has on you, but from the way he’s watching you like a hawk… you probably don’t need to admit anything.

You ask one more time. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? Don’t let me pressure you…”

He toys with the tiny, sharp instrument, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’d be lying if I said the idea of this doesn’t… entice me.” He gently pokes at one of his own fingers, testing the waters. “And having you put this level of trust in me?” He meets your gaze. “It’s nothing short of an honor.”

“Then…” You feel heat rising to your own cheeks, and flex your fingers before offering him your left hand. “Please?”

He takes it in his, and pauses with a question. “Are you sure this is where you want it? Other areas would likely be… less sensitive. L-less painful, I mean. They… might also bleed less though…”

You nod. “Yes. I want it all, pain included.”

He smirks, running his thumb along the length of your middle finger. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?”

You pout playfully. “Only a little? …Gotta step up my game then…”

He shakes his head, laughing beneath his breath. Focus returning to your hand, he requests your preference. “Through the fingertip, like the first one?”

A rush of excitement tightens your chest. “Yeah, uh… the middle one, this time, please.”

He holds the appendage steady, readying the pin. “So polite…” He glances up at you. “A countdown this time, or no?”

You shake your head. “No… uh, again, in your own time.”

He picks up on the slight nervous edge in your voice. “You don’t have to watch, love.”

You consider it, and close your eyes. “Just… for this first one.”

You feel the tiniest point of pressure against the pad of your finger.

“No second thoughts yet?”

Your lips curl up at the edges.

“None.”

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he mentions it. “Breathe for me, doll.”

You obey.

“In…”

Your lungs fill.

“Out…”

You breathe out, slow at first, and then hard, as you feel the thin metal pierce through your sensitive skin. Your free hand grips the bedsheets and a sudden heat washes over you. Matt’s calm voice is quick to fill your ears.

“Good, good. There you go, you’re okay.”

You open your eyes and sure enough, he’s mirrored the first injury. Not too deep, just enough to hurt, and draw blood when removed.

His thumb rubs distracting circles into your palm. “How are you feeling now?”

Your shaky breath turns into quiet laughter, and you feel a little unhinged as you look him in the eye. “Good… really good.”

Relief softens his features, and warms his smile. “Good. You did very well.”

Your cheeks heat from the praise, the feeling mixing deliciously with the slight throb of pain. “You-” You take in a breath. “You can take it out now.”

He shifts slightly in his position beneath you. “You sure? I’m in no rush, doll, we can take our time with this.”

“I know, I know… but I want it to bleed.” You unfurl your right hand from the sheets, reaching out to rest it on his left shoulder. “Besides, I hate to make you wait for your reward.”

His brows raise. “Reward?”

“You didn’t think I’d have you pierce me just to keep the blood all to myself, did you?” You grin. “It’d be an awful waste.”

“That’s…” His own breath grows slightly heavier, and you revel in it. “…Very generous of you, love.”

He takes the end of the pin between his fingertips, careful not to tug on it. His eyes ask for permission, and you grant it with a nod. You don’t close your eyes this time. You do squeeze his shoulder, though.

Slowly, gently, he pulls the pin back, and you watch in rapt fascination as it moves through your skin. Your breath hitches the slightest bit when it slides fully out, and comfort spills from Matthew’s lips. “Sh-sh-shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay… it’s out now.” The mixture of comfort, pain, and praise that he’s giving you is enough to make you dizzy. You love it. Maybe too much. A brief thought passes that you may never get enough.

It fades when he looks up at you, and you see the restrained desire in his eyes. It mixes with surprise. “Oh-oh! I didn’t know you were watching that time…”

You raise a brow. “Is that okay?”

A beat passes, and he laughs, soft and breathy. “Of course. Of course it is.”

Blood is already beading at your fingertip, so you raise it up in offering. “You’re really good at this.”

He eyes your fresh little wounds and a faint sense of satisfaction blooms deep within him. “…Am I?”

His eyes close as he takes the tip of your finger between his lips, and you bite back an embarrassing noise when you feel him apply light suction. “S- shit- you sure are...”

Your lidded eyes graze across his features, and they catch on the new scar adorning his cheek. They remain there even after he’s released your finger, and as you allow that hand to fall to your lap, you reach out to him with the other. He doesn’t pull away when you cup his cheek, but he does comment after a quick breath to collect himself. “Like I said earlier… ‘s just a scratch.”

You gently brush over the raised line with your thumb, a pout turning your lips down. “Scratches don’t leave scars…”

He cups a hand over yours, blinking slowly. “I’m okay, truly.” Tongue poking out from between his wet lips again, he smiles. “Feeling better than okay right now, thanks to you.”

You look from his scar, to his eyes, and back to his scar a few times as an urge blooms within you. It’s a familiar one, often fought back, and re-emerging with renewed intensity every time.

You let it win tonight.

Leaning down toward him, giving him ample time to stop you, you move to press a kiss to his cheek. He makes no attempt to object.

His breath catches, almost imperceptible if you weren’t so close, as your lips meet his freshly scarred skin. You linger for a moment that feels like forever, before pulling away. When your eyes open and meet once more, the room feels warmer.

…Maybe it’s just you.

His eyes flutter closed again as he leans into your touch, still cupping his cheek. His other hand finds yours, joining it on your lap.

As the two of you bask in your respective little highs, you feel uncharacteristically bold. So when a question arises, you don’t dismiss it as you’ve done in the past.

“Matthew?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think about kissing me?”

His eyes blink open.

“I… do kiss you?”

You smile at the innocent confusion.

“Not… not like I just did. Not on my cheek, or my forehead, or my hand…”

Your thumb brushes past the corner of his mouth.

“On my lips.”

His eyes widen.

“…Oh.”

You didn’t think his face could grow much warmer, but it does.

“I… well…” He seems reluctant to answer, and you wonder what’s holding him back.

“It’s okay if you don’t, love. I just… wonder, sometimes.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, seeming to come to a quiet conclusion. “…I do, though.” His words suddenly have a desperate edge to them. “I have, and I do. But… I feel like I shouldn’t.”

Your head tilts to the side. “Shouldn’t think about it?”

“N-” He falters. “…Yes… that’s… part of it. I do feel like I shouldn’t sometimes. I don’t ever want to push that sort of affection on you. I- I’d be okay if we never… went there. Honestly. Just… having you- the honor of calling you mine. That’s more than enough for me.”

Your eyes threaten to water from the effort of containing your emotions. “That means a lot to me, you know? That you don’t want to push me. But… I’d like to put that inner conflict of yours at ease. Because I think about it too.”

“You do?” There’s genuine disbelief in his voice.

You nod. “I sure do. Ha… honestly, I fear it’s a bit… obvious, sometimes.”

He shrugs, shaking his head slowly. “I mean… I never want to assume. I’m not always the best at reading people…”

“Well, what if I make it clear, hm?” You lock in on his gaze. “I want to kiss you too, Matthew.”

Flustered by the direct confession, he trips over his words. “I- ahaha- well, wow. Uhm- I mean, you see…”

Your voice is soft. “What is it, love?”

“I’m…” He closes his eyes. “Afraid.”

You first try the lighthearted method of easing his fears. “I promise I won’t bite…”

In spite of his apparent inner conflict, he laughs. “Not, uh, not of that… but thank you. It’s, eh…”

“You can be candid with me, honey.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to… get you sick.”

You blink. “Do you… feel a cold coming on, or…?”

You move your hand up to feel his forehead, but right now he’s flushed all over, so… oh. Oh, maybe you’ve been misinterpreting that.

Mirroring your earlier exchange, he pulls your hand down with a small smile. “No… not that kind of sick. I mean…” He toys with your fingers as he finds his words. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something inside me. Something dangerous. Something bad. I’m afraid of passing it to you.”

You glance at your wrist, and its slowly growing collection of black lines. “Honey… I think that whatever lives within you is already in me too.” You tap a few times on your chest, right over both of your hearts. “You know?”

“Yeah… I do.” His gaze lingers on your chest, but you can sense that it’s innocent. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s looking more through you than at you. From his next words, you can tell that his mind’s a little far away. “Still, though… I fear that there’s more. Something worse. Something that wouldn’t serve you. I… I don’t know what it is.”

You mull his words over, and come to a rational conclusion. Well. As rational as you’re capable of being in your current state.

You reach out to place a finger beneath his chin, your thumb dangerously close to his lower lip. It doesn’t take much more than that to bring him back into the here and now with you. “Even so. I’m not scared. I wouldn’t be here with you today if I was afraid of taking risks.”

His lips part slightly as you pause, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“If you really don’t want to, I will not pressure you. I won’t bring this up again unless you do. But regardless- I need you to know this, Matthew.”

For once, he’s the one holding his breath.

“I don’t care if you’re sick. I don’t care if it’s contagious. Hell, I’d kiss you even if you were dead.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips again. A subconscious thing, you figure.

Satisfied that you’ve made your stance clear, you move to release your gentle hold on his chin.

His hand flies up to stop you.

“Please.”

You freeze.

“Please… what?”

His tone is full of quiet desperation.

“Kiss me. Please. I want it too, I do, I do.”

Your breath grows shallow.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You allow your hand to slide until it’s cupping the back of his jaw, and you lean down slowly. He rises to meet you halfway, you both close your eyes, and together, you give in.

It’s desperate and clumsy, trembling breaths and shaky hands. Your uneven positioning doesn’t lend itself well to the action, and your shared inexperience makes itself quietly known.

But it’s passionate, it’s intimate, vulnerable, and honest.

It’s far from perfect. It’s real.

Neither of you would change a single thing.

Breaking apart, you both descend into fits of quiet giggles. Eyes still closed and foreheads pressed together, you lean into each other, catching your breath.

When you’re calm enough to speak, you pull back, squeezing his hands in yours. “You’re so warm…”

He laces his fingers between yours. “You’re so soft…”

He shifts in his half-kneeling stance at the bed beside you, and it suddenly hits you. “Gods, how long have I kept you like this?”

The sudden question pulls him halfway out of his post-kiss daze. “Like what?”

You laugh, embarrassed. “On the floor in front of me! I’ve been so caught up in… in- in you, I didn’t even think about it, I…”

He shakes his head, tone completely unbothered. “It’s alright, doll! Really, it’s…” He stares up at you for a moment, and exhales. “It’s far from a bad position to be in.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Even so, you can’t be comfortable. C’mon, we’re getting you back in this bed with me properly.”

You move to encourage him to stand, and he puts his hands down on the edge of the bed to support himself. Only, instead of standing, he flinches with a quiet “Ow!” When he pulls his hand back, you’re mortified to see the pin he’d used on you earlier sticking out of his palm.

“Oh, fuck- Matt- here- let me see.” You reach for his wrist, and he lets you take it.

You sigh in relief once you hold it in the light. It’s not buried to the hilt, just about halfway. It hasn’t pierced through his hand completely, but the sight still makes you cringe. Guilt is quick to wash over you. “Matt, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “It’s okay, poppet. It hardly even hurt, just took me by surprise more than anything.”

You throw him a skeptical look, and he doubles down. “Honest! And anyways, it’s not your fault that I left it lying on the bed.”

You frown. “I distracted you…”

He shrugs. “I’d say it was well worth it, given the type of distraction.”

Shaking your head, you cradle his hand in yours. “I’m still sorry.” Looking at him with worried eyes, you make an offer. “I can take it out, if you want me to. Or- or you can! I mean- whatever you’re comfortable with…”

He nods, his smile soft. “You can do it, doll. You won’t hurt me.”

The confidence- (or is it trust?)- in his words surprises you. It shouldn’t, you suppose, given that this is nothing compared to the whole heart-transplant-thing. He wasn’t quite conscious for that, though…

Still, you don’t take the job lightly. Carefully steadying his hand, you reach to grasp the end of the pin. “Do you want me to count?”

He mirrors your words from earlier. “No, it’s okay. In your own time.”

You hold the pin steady, and pull. Not too fast, not too slow, you try to mirror how he did it for you, and it’s out in no time. He doesn't even flinch. You frown at the offending object as you place it on your bedside table with purpose. “Bad pin, bad.”

Chuckling, he flexes his hand in your hold. “It’s really alright, you know? I’m not upset.”

Your focus returns to his palm, watching blood bead up out of the tiny hole. Apparently deciding to continue acting out your prior exchange in reverse, he offers it up to you. “That’s yours, if you’d like.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “…I’ve hardly earned it.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not something to be earned. I’m giving it willingly. You’re welcome to any part of me… whenever you want it.” He catches your downcast gaze. “Always.”

Flustered by his sincerity, you try to let go of the guilt nagging at you. Focusing on the blood collecting in his palm, you recall the taste from last time.

You crave it.

Leaning down, you kitten-lick at the tiny puddle. Once you catch a taste, though, you’re quick to lave your tongue over it in earnest. He watches you closely.

Shutting your eyes, you savor his offering, but it’s quick work nonetheless, his injury healing as fast as yours had.

Once his hand is cleaned, you thank him, feeling fire on your cheeks.

“Hmm. I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” He remarks while moving to stand. Surely his knees are killing him, but he voices no complaint. He’s far more content than you’d seen him all day, actually.

He stretches with a yawn before falling into step and making his way around the bed to rejoin you. He combs his fingers through his half-damp hair, feathering it out. You watch in quiet admiration as it drapes across his shoulders.

The man has nicer hair than you do, you think to yourself for the millionth time since knowing him. Not in true jealousy, of course, but it has always surprised you. In your early meetings, you’d only ever seen a hint of it, peeking out from beneath the neck of his mask. He keeps it tied back and tucked away when he’s working, so it wasn’t until the two of you had some genuine alone-time together that you’d been graced with a proper view of it.

Milk-chocolate brown, silky-smooth, and pin-straight. He had the type of hair you’d once envied, seemingly effortless to care for. He never had to do much to make it look nice. But of course, he’d always brush it off when you said so. Seeming almost flustered, he was often unsure of what to do with your compliments, especially in the beginning. You did your best to lay them on easy.

The bed shifts once again beneath his weight, and this time you don’t flinch at all. Sitting back against the headboard, he shuffles up beside you. You lean into him as the mattress dips and he stretches out his left arm, wrapping it around you.

“Comfy?” He asks.

“Mmmhm.” You hum.

Reaching out for his hand, you pull it toward you. You love his hands, and he knows it. Luckily, he’s never seemed bothered by your penchant for hanging onto them. Quite the opposite, if you were to guess. You aren’t oblivious to his possessive nature, after all.

Idly manipulating his fingers, you quietly admire them for the thousandth time. You’ve made yourself quite familiar with every scar, callus, and crease on these strong hands. With one thought as to all that they’re capable of, it still baffles you how gently he handles you. He always has.

That doesn’t mean it’s never hurt. Sometimes pain is necessary. Or, at the very least, it’s unavoidable. But he was always gentle about it. Injuring you, bandaging you, feeding you, caring for you… hell, even that time he prepared to kill you, he was gentle about it.

You can hurt someone gently.

You can pleasure someone roughly.

…There may be a few wires crossed in your brain. You laugh to yourself softly.

“What’s funny, love?”

You shake your head before resting it on his shoulder. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just thinking.”

Even when he was scared, or angry, his gentle touch never faltered.

You sometimes wonder if it was fear, or rage, that caused his hands to tremble after your encounter with Mr. T. Was it fear of losing you? Was it anger at what the man had done? Honestly, it could’ve simply been the adrenaline rush of having just finally killed the man.

…Regardless. It wasn’t lost on you how hard he tried to keep himself composed, diligently removing pin, after pin, after pin.

That’s the only part of that awful memory that you don’t mind.

Well, that, and the confession of his feelings for you. That was certainly a highlight too.

Manually curling his fingers one by one into his palm, you run your thumb over the symbol of Venus, tattooed on his middle finger. Every time you see it, you hear his voice in your mind, answering your inquiry as to its meaning.

“Because I’m a feminist.” He’d stated matter-of-factly.

You pull his hand up further, and plant a kiss on the reminder inked into his skin.

He turns his head, planting one on the crown of your head in turn.

Using your thumb to push his fingers back out, you frown at the sight of the new scar on his palm. It’s a tiny thing, honestly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it.

You huff, and plant another kiss there anyways.

Matt breathes his laughter into your hair.

“Y’know, I’d been planning on piercing myself anyways, and offering you my blood in turn. That little accident with the pin really just cut out half the work for me.”

Your eyes widen and you lean away to turn and look at him directly. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean- you were so generous with me today… it only felt fair.”

“I wasn’t expecting… you… you didn’t have to do that.”

His hand comes to life, turning the tables and beginning to gently play with yours.

“Okay… okay, I’ll admit.” His thumb taps thoughtfully over the black dots adorning your fingertips. “Fairness wasn’t the only motivating factor.”

The undercurrent of suggestion in his tone sparks your interest. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He thoughtfully hums.

“Well, if you had further plans, I certainly never meant to interrupt.”

He considers it, softly pinching your fingers between his own. “Well. You did seem to imply earlier that you wanted more than one piercing. I’m still very willing to help.”

At the prospect, you grow a little bold. “Would you be willing to let me return the favor? You shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

He smiles, playful. “Haven’t had your fill of me yet, hm?”

You reach out to your nightstand, retrieving the pin once more. “I don’t think I could ever get enough, love.”

-

The two of you settle in, taking a few turns carefully piercing one another and nursing the blood. You keep the focus on your hands, for tonight, at least.

At one point, his palm brushes across the stub where your left pinky once was, and a shiver runs down your spine. His voice slips out, low and apologetic. “Sorry, poppet.”

“It’s alright… ‘s just sensitive sometimes.” You’re willing to move past the moment, but he lingers on it.

“I really never wanted to do that.”

“I know. I… it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Pain and regret seeps into his voice.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all. But they… didn’t give me much choice.”

You recall the hammer he held that night, and how he set it aside instead of turning it on you.

“You bent the rules as far as you could without breaking them. I know that.”

“I told you how I went back and made them pay in the end, right?”

You nod, but still, you question him, wanting to hear it again.

“They suffered?”

His left arm tightens around you.

“Absolutely.”

You relax against him, nodding in approval.

“Very good.”

He holds his own left pinky out for you, and you pierce it slowly.

-

When you’re both comfortably high off of one another, you will yourself to move one final time to set the pin safely aside.

As you curl back into Matt’s side, you notice his latest wound, still smeared with a small amount of congealing, black blood. Bringing it to your lips without hesitation, you mumble to yourself. “Getting sloppy with my work… shame on me.”

After cleaning up the mess and kissing it better one final time, you let your head fall back against the pillows. Matt regards you with lidded eyes and a soft laugh, reaching down to cup your cheek. You question him with a soft sound, and his voice is low when he answers you.

“You’ve still got my blood on your lips.”

Having lost your brain-to-mouth filter several piercings ago, you pose a bold solution.

“How about you help me clean it off then?”

You hear his heart pick up its pace at the invitation.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Bringing his lips to meet yours for the second time tonight, you both melt into the kiss. It’s slow, and lazy, neither of you in a hurry to pull away. Even through your shared haze, when his hand finds the back of your neck and his fingertips press softly into the muscles there, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you that makes your head spin.

He pulls away to keep from laughing into the kiss. “Sorry, love. Didn’t know that would… affect you so strongly.”

Your tired eyes flutter open, and you speak between heavy breaths. “Don’t be.” You snake your hand around the back of his neck, and pull him down into you once again.

-

When you’ve both exhausted your air and energy, you roll over, wrapping yourself around him. As you lay there, head on his chest in the cozy, quiet room, a distant thought occurs to you.

“…Damn.”

“…Hmm?” His questioning hum reverberates in your ear.

“I never got the rest of the laundry out of the dryer.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling you in close.

“What’s so bad about that? The machine turns itself off.”

“Yeah, but… the laundry will get wrinkled…”

You trail off, and after a moment of thought, you both come to a decision together, voicing it aloud in sync.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Tiredly giggling at the jinx, the two of you give up the fight against sleep.

In the dark, beneath the sheets, your hands find each other, and you lace your sore fingers together, squeezing gently.

A/N: If you'd like to read my thoughts in regards to the process of writing this fic, as well as the musical inspiration behind it, you can find all of that over here, in the end-notes on Ao3! Header Image Sources: x - x - x (they're from Pinterest again, i know i know don't yell at me) My playlist and pin board for Matt. Lastly, of course, here's the link to The Malenkee Saga, and here's a link to Matt's videos if you're just looking for him.

[serpercival]

mentioned a plot bunny I've had for a while, immediately went to take a shower, snowballed on it, and now ya boy is downloading tools to make a text adventure game. normal behavior. look sometimes you need to write reader-insert fic that's actually about identity death and compliance to authority and digs its fingers into fanfiction as a genre and also it is reader-insert slash fic with hawkeye pierce from mash.

[painterofhorizons]

akuze

Days after she gets rescued, weeks after, years after, she still wakes up gagging, choking, feeling the crippling pain of swallowing acid, of it eating its way from inside out through her flesh. Sometimes it‘s choking without reason before she even thinks about it, just random moments of her body deciding to throw her back when her mind has been almost fine for almost too long. Sometimes it‘s suddenly not being able to swallow when she‘s eating. In the first few weeks, it‘s just simply being unable to breathe without feeling like she eats raw lava - but every time there is the dead, half devoured face of Corporal Giles staring right back at her whenever she closes her eyes to swallow the lava and find oxygen in it.

(x)

[the-sand-guardian]

Whumptober Day 3: "I Warned You"

“Gatinho, no- I’m not letting you do that,” Roier shook his head again as Cellbit refused to let up his pestering. The two had been going back and forth for at least 15 minutes as Roier tried his best to get Cellbit off of his case. 

“What’s the worst that could happen? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone there with you this time?” Cellbit was relentless. Roier had accidentally made the other aware of the fact that that night was to be a full moon, and Cell had taken that to mean that he was being encouraged to come along and see Roier’s transformation. Roier, of course, vehemently opposed this idea. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to be around you for it, you know that,” He tried yet again to explain. “But it’s just not safe to have you so close for that, alright?” 

“I’ve survived worse- Guapito, please, just this once?” Goddamn was his husband stubborn. 

Roier stopped walking and looked at him. “You’re not going to let me get away with this one, are you?” 

Cellbit shook his head. 

Roier sighed and nodded. “I suppose- Just this once though, and if you get hurt you’re not allowed to complain when I call you an idiot, deal?” He stuck out his hand for the other. 

Cellbit grabbed his hand tightly and shook it. “Deal.” 

Roier shook on it and shifted to hold Cellbit’s hand as they walked together. They still had lots of work to do before nightfall, and twenty minutes of arguing wasn’t helping their case. Roier pulled Cellbit along with him towards their home. 

Roier, of course, had been a wolf since he was 7. He was used to what happened each month and had learned enough to get by. His transformations had slowly gotten easier and easier as time passed and he learned more about his own lycanthropy. First, he’d begin by cooking. 

Transforming hurt the worst on an empty stomach, and it was known for making wolves more violent, too. On Roier’s first transformation, the poor pup hadn’t eaten since breakfast and almost hurt one of his pack. He learned that lesson quickly. 

Next, he needed something to keep him entertained. As a wolf, Roier was usually content to roam the woods, killing deer and tormenting small wildlife, but with Cellbit this wasn’t exactly an option. He brought out a few of his old toys from his teenage years back out into his cave with Cellbit’s assistance. Hey, if he wanted to tag along so badly, Roier had no issues with making him work a little for it. 

After Roier had eaten a rather hearty dinner and the cave was prepared, he checked with his husband one last time to confirm that he was still adamant about going. He was.

The sun slowly began to sink under the hills in the distance, and both men sat just in front of the cave looking out at the horizon. Cellbit was wrapped in a blanket and had thrown on his husband’s hoodie as the night air began to settle around them. Roier shut his eyes for a moment before giving Cellbit a kiss to the cheek and rising to his feet. 

“Promise me that you’ll hide when I first come out here, gatinho?” 

“What for?” 

“Just give it five minutes, ok? I need you to get as far from here as you can, and then you can come back. Please, just promise me that you’ll listen to me this one time?” 

“I promise” Cellbit nodded and began to stand up and Roier ducked into the darkness of the cave. 

Transforming might have gotten easier, but it still fucking hurt. Roier’s bones had already ached for days in anticipation, but that was only about to increase tenfold. His body shifted and contorted as the sun sank lower and lower. Roier doubled over, clutching his stomach as it warped and expanded. He failed to bite back a scream as his legs gave in as he hit the ground. 

After several minutes, the stretching and shifting of his skin and bones slowed, then stopped. The transformation may have been over, but by Christ did he still hurt. Roier let out a loud howl into the darkness of the night. 

“Guapito? Guapito, are you ok?” A voice asked from the mouth of the cave. The wolf knew no sounds but those he or the creatures he killed made. This voice was not that of a deer’s. 

The wolf turned its hulking form towards the opening of the cave. A small creature stood at the opening, a small weapon drawn in its hand. The creature was not unlike the wolf’s other form, but the wolf knew of this creature. Humans. Humans, who kill unless they are killed. 

The wolf let out a snarl before charging in a flash of brown-grey fur. Its vision was flooded by red, and there was a scream. Something poked the wolf before tearing into it. Then, the creature stopped moving. The wolf could relax. 

The wolf was hurt, but just a little. Maybe it would only hunt for a little bit tonight and then sleep. That sounded nice.

The next thing Roier knew, he was awake. Fuck, when did he get cut? Something ached deep within him that he couldn’t quite puzzle out. He stretched, hearing a few leftover dislocations click back into place and provide him just a little more relief. He peered out of the cave, only to spot the curled up figure of his husband in a puddle of dark red blood. He rushed out of the cave, tears already pricking his eyes. The body did not move. Roier’s breath caught in a sob as he turned over his husband’s limp body. 

“Gatinho-” He began to weep as he pulled him close one last time. 

Thank you for reading! I've also posted this to Ao3, where I'll be cataloguing all of my works for this month! I also have 3 other WIP fics, so if you enjoy my works please go show some love over there or feel free to shoot me an ask!

[sparky-is-spiders]

Title!

there was teeth in their kiss

Okay so I won't lie, this one really got away from me. I had like three different ideas and I was like "I'll just write a really short scene for all of them!!" only for the "really short scenes" to get... progressively longer. Oops?

I have two Lizardverse fics and one TMA (JE) fic. Because I don't want my Lizardverse stuff showing up in the JE tag and it's also The Longest One, so you can check the notes of this post to read it.

Also gonna be real I wrote these at ass-o-clock at night and Did Not Edit them, so.......

Oh shoot wait warnings! They only apply to the second one (you can stop reading at (Amaldyne)).

Body horror/mouth horror (mild?)

Non-consensual touching (non-sexual/non-romantic, but I figured I should still warn for it just in case)

(Send me a fic title!)

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): The Overseer is a creature called a Grotle (think ankylosaurus but bigger, spikier, and omnivorous). He's also a very dangerous necromancer. His real name is Mihzarch (pronounced Miz-ark), and these are used somewhat interchangeably. Leoshgon wields a sword called the Godslayer sword. It's a very deadly semi-sentient sword that's bonded to his soul. He's also a Noctar (a much smaller, fuzzier mammal species.))

(Leoshgon) The Overseer liked to put his teeth to Leoshgon's throat. It happened in the night, mostly, when Leo was curled against Mihzarch's heavily plated body, throat bared in offering for the Overseer to do as he would. He was always very gentle, of course, and very careful. As if Leo was a priceless, fragile heirloom, not the most dangerous weapon in the world. But there was a pressure there, and Leo could feel the shape of the teeth even through his mane: the wide, shearing ones in the back; the broad conical incisors in the front, wet with saliva and dreadfully cold. The puff of chilled breath sent shivers down Leo's spine. Leo wasn't sure he liked the sensation, really. It was uncomfortably damp, for one, and also sort of boring to be held in place for so long (aside from that brief spike of fear, which really wasn't fair to Mihzarch at all, because the Godslayer Sword was the real danger here, but- that wasn't the point anyway). But he always bared his neck willingly. And when those massive jaws closed so sweetly around his throat, he leaned into it. And then Mihzarch would let out a happy rumble that sang through Leoshgon's entire body, and all would be well.

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): Amaldyne is currently a (semi) unwilling servant of the ever-starving god of hunger. Eityr is weirdo freak bestie who want her to become as powerful as possible. Their relationship is. Uh. Weird. Amaldyne is a dragon becoming something More, Eityr is a Noctar)

(Amaldyne) "Show me." Amaldyne didn't look up when Eityr entered the room, nor did she turn to face her. In fact, she did not acknowledge Eityr's presence in any way at all. No matter. Eityr would not be so easily dissauded. Amaldyne's desk was strewn about with massive tomes and piles of documents and about a dozen bits of charcoal. It was as if some great beast of parchment had been savaged and slain atop it, and Amaldyne was trying to read the future in its bones. With a flick of her wrist and a stretch of her power, Eityr relocated them all to the floor, then hopped up onto the now-cleared metal. Amaldyne slowly raised her head to look at her with exhausted irritation written plainly all over her snout. "I want to see," Eityr said, "so show me." "Show you what?" the words were accompanied by a hiss of displeasure, but Amaldyne's wings remained loose and relaxed by her side. Unhappy, but willing to indulge. Were it anyone else, Eityr would find that infuriating. "Something happened, didn't it? There's something-" 'wrong' wasn't the right word. Whatever it was, it must surely be the opposite of 'wrong,' but Eityr struggled to think of an alternate descriptor. "Something happened to you, and I want to see it. Show me." Amaldyne nudged her down off the desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Eityr, and I don't have time to engage your every childish whim either, so please-" Sick of waiting and on a whim, Eityr grabbed at Amaldyne's lower jaw and yanked downwards. It split right down the middle, and the insides were coated with teeth that had not been there only a moment ago. Amaldyne let out a proper snarl then, shock intermingled with an animalistic rage. Her tail was poised to strike, stinger gleaming in the low light. But the tell-tale glow of dragonsflame never touched her throat, and so Eityr felt comfortable in running a paw along the seam where Amaldyne's mouth had split. No venomous fangs sank into her fur and no bite crushed the strength from her writs. Of course not. Amaldyne had always been content to let Eityr do as she would, why should this be any different? After a moment, Amaldyne pulled away. Her jaw clicked back together, and she watched Eityr through slitted, appraising eyes. "Satisfied?" She asked? Eityr saw no reason to lie. "No."

[konakoro]

It's surreal to realize that Jennifer's Body is an academically studied film. Dozens, if not hundreds, of essays have been written on it, it's taught in feminist film theory, queer film theory, etc in film school. IT'S IN THE CRITERION COLLECTION.

Maybe it's the fact that I first watched/fell in love with the movie during the early-mid 2010's when it was still considered a "bad movie" by most audiences, but it feels very surreal that a movie I love to comfort watch is seen as a pillar in certain parts of film education

[maideninorange]

All he wanted was just even one more day to live.

He regrets getting that wish.

A very personal (and cathartic) fic I wrote out in three days because I'm currently suffering from Pikmin brainrot lol. It's really, really bleak though, so be careful with this one if you give it a read.

(Warnings here are Species Dysphoria, Suicidal Thoughts, and some minor Body Horror. It's a bad end fic, and boy do I write it like one.)

[a-deed-without-a-name]

Supercritical Ch. 3

There were radiation-proof suits in the bowels of the Men of Letters bunker, because of course there were.  The MoL had been prepared for threats both mystic and banal.  They were goofy and clumsy and practically oozed 1950s nuclear paranoia, but they still functioned just fine.

“Put it on,” Dean told Sam over the phone.

“It’s overkill, Dean,” Sam argued.  “It’s not sustained, chronic exposure, not like you’re getting.”

“Great, so you don’t have to wear it all the time.  Only when you’re around me.”

Keep reading - AO3

[ichorblossoms]

having thoughts about grimm's relationship with their body and humanity and how it probably transitions more post-story bc it's not until somewhere in p3 that it feels actually, fully comfortable in its own skin for all its inhumanity, and i think that's enough for it to unlock new gender thoughts

this got long so i'm putting it under the cut. i'm just rambling abt character shit over the timeline of the story and whatnot yeehaw

overall, grimm's not someone who hates their body and all the ways it's not human, especially not to the point of harming themself about it or being overly reckless (their sense of survival and self-preservation are Very strong), and at no point in the story do they really hate their body or anything, but they struggle to see it as a human body. before i get too into how the story affects things; they exist in a body that was modified at a decently young age, they've grown up in this body and know how it moves and reacts, but as they distance themself from their past, they realize that a lot of what felt like decisions they chose to make, including modification, were actually the result of manipulation and abuse, so their body carries a lot of...reminders that fade in time but never truly disappear. and they got out of that! they survived and won't go back! but because of all of this shit (< grimm backstory post) it left them not only with an emotional gap between them and most people, but a physical one too, and that's even harder to form relationships with people without hiding because opinions on humods among the non-modified majority usually falls somewhere between "patronizing pity" and "violent disgust" (then you occasionally get the outliers like yarrow who are fascinated by it, or the folks who choose modification out of excitement and not desperation, but again, outliers).

which, grimm doesn't consciously carry any of the "ohh they're going to think i'm a disgusting abomination of a creature" sort of angst that i often loathe in fiction, but instead has this perpetual sense of "i'm comfortable in my own skin, but i need to hide what i am for my own safety because i am not human" which isn't entirely untrue, but it keeps them from sitting down and thinking about like. what they want. or analyzing their personhood and how that's affected my being humod. in a way i think gender stuff comes easier bc grimm is so comfortable letting other people just assume whatever of them bc they're more concerned with "passing" as human and therefore whatever other ppl percieve grimm as gender-wise has no bearing on their own sense of gender (if that makes sense)

of course the actual thing is they have a metric fuckton of internalized shame around being humod they don't/can't look in the eye, but there's no way in hell grimm would have the self awareness or emotional intelligence for that. at least not at this point

and one of the many things that grimm runs away from at the end of p1 is yarrow's curiosity about their inhuman body, because why the fuck would it confront the reason why someone showing interest in them for what they are causes them immense discomfort? that's enough vulnerability for the next five years, thank you very much.

for all they run away from everything there, a lot of emotions still linger and that empowers grimm to at least sit down and think about what it would like its body to be like and change it accordingly, which is great! transitioning and exhibiting control over their own body is what grimm needs! it doesn't solve everything bc they're still paranoid as all hell about having their modifications seen by anyone, but damn, having tits sure ain't bad.

then everything with grimm coming back in p2 happens and here yarrow is, enthusiastically loving it and its body for all it is (after the whole. yknow "hey that the fuck is going on between us what is your goal here asshole"), so a pocket of the world where it doesn't have to worry about constantly wearing like five facades opens up and it's comfortable for the time being and some of that stuff can start to be slowly unpacked, which is well and good, but grimm still is distinctly aware of how it feels different from yarrow because it's humod and they're human and that's not really as big a deal as grimm is thinking but. yknow. the hypervigilance

and then of p3 happens and yarrow becomes humod and of course the shame in letting that happen is there and it's overwhelming and it's crushing and grimm thinks they can never do enough to apologize for dooming yarrow to the same existence it has but worse bc he can't hide like they can but then yarrow...just... isn't doomed by it. he revels in his new and weird body like the weird doctor he is despite the horror of it happening in the first place! he can't hide it like grimm could before (grimm stopped caring about hiding bc it's not like yarrow could. plus pretending to be fully human is negligible when you're like. hunting people down and causing extreme property damage), but that doesn't change that he can clack his mandibles like tongs or has a secondary pair of arms or a fucked up proboscis tongue to [redacted], which is fucking cool! how could grimm ever be disgusted by yarrow's body when the not-quite-man they went through hell to find and still love so much loves it! yarrow's still a person! maybe not fully human anymore, but what does that matter!

and there's way too much other shit going on in p3 for them to parse everything out but loving yarrow and his humod body gradually allows grimm to circle around and reconsider their own body and relationship with it for themself and eventually question what about hiding/ambiguity they liked so much and if it's still "useful" or should they make some more assertions about who and what they are. also how the shame of not being "human" they carried for so long doesn't actually matter and is not exclusive to personhood unlike their teen years suggested and also maybe yarrow calling them his "wife" set off something too idk

after that it's even more vague soup than the actual canon of the story bc i'd like to. y'know. write the story itself first before thinking about what happens after everything but it's good to have a trajectory. or something idk

[ehlnofay]

19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

[scarygorgon]

It was Mr Blobby’s 30th birthday on Monday. So I thought I’d share a wee comic about the time I met him. cw: Mr Blobby

[funeralprocessor]

(for context, Amalan dragons are fragments of the bodies of the gods and more protean and body horror-y than traditional ones)

To be devoured by the dragon from the outside in, or to consume it willingly and be eaten from the inside out. To walk either path is to become one with the wyrm, to join the eternal orobouros.

When a person is eaten by a dragon, in whatever form that may take, it does not annihilate them. The body is unwoven, but the head, the spine, the heart, these most precious morsels are preserved, kept alive in a cocoon of primordial flesh and ichor as their minds join the congregation in the ecstatic exaltation of the dragons. Slowly, a new body is formed for them, rising to the surface of the sacred flesh and bursting forth like maggots feasting on the corpse of a god.

They have many names: apostles, congregants, but perhaps most commonly, newts. They're thin, wet, feral things that show little of their prior selves, or even that they were ever people at all. In time, though, they can recover their cognizance, their memories, and even a semblance of their personalities. But make no mistake; they are born again, and possess the relentless zeal of the converted.

Newts are the beginning of their transformation, not the end, and many of the most powerful servants of the dragons began as newts before growing and changing into something more. Or less, depending on how you look at it.

Perhaps the most frightening of these are the priest castes, who serve the capricious wills of the dragons directly and can bend the hearts of men and beast alike. Their faces are strange, chitinous masks bisected down the middle, which hide the morass of spiritual probes and sensors and miscellaneous organs that permits them to vivisect the soul of their victims with shocking ease and surgical precision. Notable subtypes include Confessors, who possess a single enormous eye whose gaze lays every secret bare; Reconcilers, who reweave their victims minds into sleeper agents and fanatics; and Eucharites, who are perhaps most important of all for they facilitate the rite of communion, in which the faithful touch the minds of their god and the aspirating are transubstantiated.

(Kos art by @ashuldur on twitter)

Communion can look very similar to conversion, in that most of the original person is broken down and remade in the image of the dragons, but communion is by definition a voluntary affair and that makes all the difference. The other primary distinction, as mentioned earlier, is that transubstantiation begins from the inside out. The aspirant consumes a small, tadpole-like spawn called a coadjutor, which essentially unravels itself and interweaves with their brain and through it, the ketrah, bridge to the higher soul. This allows them to hear the voice of the dragon and partially safeguards them against the deleterious effects of wormlight, the radiation-like energy that is emitted when dragonfire frays the weaving of the world.

A second and third communion are required for the aspirant to complete their changes: the second transforms the gut, or more specifically the gharmah, the spiritual organ that functions as a "cauldron" of sorts and lets the body absorb the magical energies of what it eats, drinks, or breathes in. Transmuted, it becomes a fragment of the dragon's hunger, a furnace that would burn the world to satiate themselves if only they could open their jaws wide enough. With this terrible hunger comes terrible power, and should they manage to feed it enough (on blood and ichor, flesh and bone, spell and soul and whatever else holds divine power in its substance) it will become less like a stomach and more like a blasphemous reactor, font of their very own dragonfire.

The third communion transforms the heart and its spiritual equivalent, the yamah, binding together the will of the dragon and the hunger of the dragon and prepares the aspirant for their final ascension, in which they are essentially eaten alive by their elders. Or rather, their old flesh is torn away and the transmuted brain, heart and gut ,nestled in a grub-like core a few feet long, is revealed. It is from this that the will regrow, remade and inhuman but very much still themselves.